


Scratching the itch

by TheFierceBeast



Series: Sweet Cherry Wine [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse world, Blow Jobs, Bobby Singer talks dirty, Clothed Sex, Competence Kink, Crobby - Freeform, Crowley is a size queen, Dirty Talk, Established Crowley/Bobby Singer, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Human Crowley (Supernatural), M/M, Manhandling, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, They are so in love, hot bear on bear action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 15:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Wanted to read some competence kink with Bobby spinning a knife and being generally hot and badass, and there wasn't any, so I wrote some.Total PWP, Apocalypseverse. Apocalypse!Bobby/Human!Crowley (Rick).





	Scratching the itch

 

It’s like Rick always imagined human prison to be, kind of. Sometimes there’s violence and threat and fear and sometimes there’s soapy hand-jobs in the showers, but mostly it’s just one hell of a lot of waiting around and killing time.

Add to that the fact his cellmate is apparently his dream-dish, and the whole scenario doesn’t seem all _that_ bad. Rick stifles a smirk.

There is, however, a _lot_ of waiting.

The warding lasted over a week on their last proper base, before the angels twigged where they were and started bombarding again. They’d bailed out, finally got to some tree cover and kept on the move, camping in the forest until a couple of days ago they found some signs of habitation again. The place is ruined, little more than a roofless, empty shell, but it has walls and that’s something more than nothing.

Now, they’re all dotted around the main room, as comfortable as they can get amongst the overgrown weeds that have invaded the once-house. Tom looks to be napping, his hat over his face. Lopez is hunched over a deck of cards. Rick is sitting on his rolled up bed-roll, back against a flaking wall, watching Bobby.

He’s reading. Books are a scarce commodity now. Even when they find them - which is admittedly not infrequently - in the remains of populated areas, they’re a heavy, non-essential item that doesn’t lend itself to being carted around in pack-space that could be better occupied by food or bullets. This, however, was a find too tempting to leave – an arcane-looking notebook hand-written in Greek that just begged to be translated. Rick could give it a go with relative ease, but the boredom factor really is a thing these days and Bobby was clearly itching to occupy his mind with something a little more cerebral than basic survival for once. So, now he’s sat against the opposite wall of the room, absorbed in the text that’s propped against his bent knees. In his right hand is a hunting knife, a wicked-looking thing that must be thirteen inches long, the blade inscribed with sigils. He absently spins it, the sharp edge catching the dying daylight as the hilt of it fits back into Bobby’s palm with a quiet slap. Rick narrows his eyes. His focus on the blade. Spinning. With his left hand, Bobby turns a page, strokes his beard. He twirls the knife, idly. It spins smoothly between his thick fingers and slaps back into his palm. Unconscious and effortless. If an enemy agent were to burst in right now, Rick knows without a doubt that that blade would be buried between their eyes quicker than blinking. It’s dizzying, rolling between Bobby Singer’s skilled fingers while his eyes remain placidly glued to the notebook’s pages and Rick just can’t take it one second longer.

“Hey – what’s up?” Bobby’s instantly alert, his brows creasing in worry as Rick pulls him to his feet.

Lopez makes to put down his cards and stand and that won’t do at all – Rick shakes his head, flashes his most placating smile and says pleasantly, “No crisis. I just need to speak with the our fearless leader. Alone. Now.” And he’s leading Bobby by the arm into the next room.

 

The next ‘room’ is another overgrown cell, windows devoid of glass, pretty much just separated off from the main room by a single high wall. Rick pushes Bobby in amongst some bushes for a little extra cover, ‘til his back hits the wall and Bobby says, “Rick?” his voice all question and Rick leans up and silences him with a desperate kiss. Around them, there’s a quiet hum of insects, a green plant scent that’s uncommonly clean for this nightmare of a world. When they part, they’re both breathing hard and Bobby has dropped both notebook and knife and his hands are resting heavy and warm on Rick’s hips. “What’s this all in aid-” Rick kisses him again, to make sure he’s well and truly got the memo. He takes Bobby’s hands, twines his fingers with Bobby’s, relishing the feel of him. Those beautiful, dangerous hands. They should be _on_ him. The thought makes him moan – a noise that apparently cannot be misinterpreted. “Rick, I ain’t washed in-”

“I don’t care.” He tugs Bobby’s khakis open as he drops to his knees and there’s a quiet thud as Bobby’s head falls back against the wall and Rick feels those clever hands cradle the back of his head, like Bobby’s too careful to be rough but he’d really, really _like_ to be… another thrill courses through Rick’s body. His mouth waters, but he forces himself to be patient because the things that are really worth having are always worth savouring, and because he is, by his own free admission, both a masochist and somewhat of a sadist. He rubs a cheek against the bulge in Bobby’s shorts, breathes him in, shaky quick breaths that hitch at the feel of him, so instantly hard and wanting. Turning his head he mouths at the solid heat of him through thin jersey, glances up to see Bobby looking down at him, lips parted and cheeks flushed and concentration _absolute_. The thrill of power at captivating a man like this could rival any victory of Rick’s murky past. He gets a bit of fabric between his teeth and tugs and Bobby exhales a little gasp, those fingers so expert with a knife stroking so gently across Rick’s cheek, petting the hair there. He tugs again, harder, and the waistband of Bobby’s shorts pulls a little lower, the fabric stretching across the head of his cock, a dark little patch of wetness starting to spread. “Don’t be gentle, darling.” Rick whispers and Bobby makes a soft, hungry noise. And when Rick guides Bobby’s hands back into his hair, those fingers tighten obediently and Rick moans, appreciative, mouthing more urgently at Bobby’s open fly.

“You gonna blow me then? That what you want?” His voice is quiet, pitched low enough that only Rick should be able to listen, but just the tone of command Rick wants to hear. He bestows a soft bite and Bobby groans, holds Rick’s head still in one firm hand and uses the other to flip down his waistband and pull out his dick, rubbing it against Rick’s lips. The giddy rush of arousal that courses through Rick’s veins makes him dizzy: he plants both hands on the wall either side of Bobby’s knees to steady himself. Opens his mouth gratefully, tongue sloppy and rapturous, tilting his head as he laves the thick length of Bobby’s dick. He knows Bobby is watching. Entranced. Glances up through his lashes to make sure and Bobby looks like he wants to just _eat him up_. That kind of desire really does things to Rick, in his heart and in his pants. He opens wider, wraps wet lips around just the fat, slick head of Bobby’s cock and purrs at the moan that gets him. The hand at the back of his head pushes, forces him to take a little more, because Bobby knows just how he loves that. The weight of him, sitting hot on Rick’s tongue, making his jaw ache already from sucking around that girth, tongue curling and lapping. Bobby’s hand tightens in the back of his hair. Tugs him closer then pulls him away, setting a pace of shallow thrusts that’s already enough to make him feel like he’s going to lose his mind.

“You like that?” Rough whisper. It’s all Rick can do to groan around the thick length fucking him, to increase the pressure with his mouth in affirmation. “That how you like it, huh?” He knows it is. Rick whimpers. Tries to lean closer. The concrete floor is hard on his knees and it’s wonderful. It’s overwhelming, the sensation, heady scent of sweat and sex, the hot heavy taste of him. Rick’s eyelashes flutter, his hips jerking mindlessly, and Bobby murmurs, “You want a little something, baby?” and slides one leg between Rick’s knees to press against his crotch and Rick’s head spins so deliriously he feels faint.

Everything about Bobby is big, and warm, and sturdy. Redoubling his efforts, Rick moves his hands from the wall, gripping the back of Bobby’s khakis waistband until his trousers start to sag and Rick wraps arms around his hips instead, fingertips stroking into the downy hair at the top of his arse crack. He can hear Bobby’s breathing, fast and heavy. He presses himself against Bobby’s leg, rutting, quick and dirty and not nearly enough and Bobby says, “You quite comfy there, princess? Humpin’ my leg while I nail that pretty mouth.” in that same measured, low murmur that makes Rick moan so loud that he’s certain it must be audible next door. “You gonna come in your pants? Let me come in your mouth?” Still so quiet, just a filthy whisper for Rick’s ears only. He lets his eyelids drift closed, mouth speeding up and tightening, twisting on the withdraw, his tongue flattened against Bobby’s tip, and the low dirty murmurs are indistinct now, broken and stammering and Bobby’s cock fattens and pulses and then floods hot and bitter across his tongue as Rick swallows feverishly, laps at him all warm and wet and shivering.

“C’mere, you.” He’s pulled to his feet, his knees protesting the sudden change of position, even as he feels Bobby’s legs shake, all post-orgasm shuddery. And then Bobby is claiming his mouth, licking his own come from Rick’s lips, hot tongue pressing, insistent and dominant. It’s glorious. Strong hands make quick work of his belt, tug roughly at his fly, then Bobby spins him around so suddenly Rick feels lightheaded. Leans full against the length of Bobby’s body, reeling, as Bobby hugs him close, his chest to Rick’s back, one arm snug around Rick’s waist. His chin hooks over Rick’s shoulder. So close. Whispering so intimately Rick can feel the tickle of beard against his ear, the damp warmth of breath. “Damn, you’re perfect.” A shiver trills through him: Rick shifts against the firm body behind him, gets a tightening of Bobby’s embrace for his trouble. Holding him. Holding him _in place_. Rick swallows, hard, drags in a long breath. His dick jerks, exposed and primed. The rest of him, fully clothed, just his cock out, bared to the room and he realises that Bobby’s looking down and _admiring_ and the pleasure winds a little tighter in his belly.

“Guilty as charged, love.” Bobby’s quiet chuckle vibrates against him. Then there’s the brush of lips at that tender spot just behind his ear, Bobby working soft, bristly kisses down his neck, taking his straining dick firmly in hand and starting to stroke. Rick groans. Tips his head back, offering his throat. Reaches back to pull Bobby as close as he possibly can. It’s beautiful torment. That big, clever hand is sinfully expert at handling cock: Rick pushes into Bobby’s grip, ruts against it. When Bobby reaches the base of his throat and bites down softly at the juncture of Rick’s neck and shoulder, rolling the muscle there gently between his teeth, Rick gives an inarticulate cry of pleasure and spills, hot and slippery over Bobby’s hand, onto the overgrown ground.

Bobby holds him tightly, lets him come down, panting and weak-kneed. It’s indulgent. Bobby indulges him so often. Another kiss, brushed against his neck and Rick glows, sated and comfortable. Dips into his pocket for a hankie to wipe himself off, then turns in Bobby’s arms. He drapes his hands around Bobby’s neck and looks up into an undeniably smug face. When he plants a light kiss on Bobby’s lips, Bobby smiles. Bobby’s smile is just beautiful. Lights up his solemn face, takes it from quietly handsome to downright gorgeous. It makes Rick feel full inside. Brimming with it. That he can be the one to spark that smile. “I think that just about covers it.”

Bobby laughs softly, and Rick feels utterly contented. Leans into the hand that comes up to cup his cheek. “You sure now? No other actions on your minutes that we ain’t covered?”

“I’m good. For now.”

 

They slip back into the next room like guilty kids. The grey daylight is fading. From beneath his hat, Tom grunts out a snore. Lopez just glances at them, and rolls his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to anyone reading this and extra special thanks to the commenters who always make my day and make me feel special.


End file.
